


fifty cent kiss

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Team Engineering, cuties being cuties, kissing booths yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please, Fitz? It’s <i>kissing</i>. You like kissing, don’t you?”</p><p>“Not strangers!” he protests. His eyes flicker traitorously down to her lips. <i>And not anybody who’s not you,</i> he thinks. But he doesn't say it. </p><p>“It’s for <i>charity</i>,” she assures him, and he’d open his mouth to tell her he hasn’t agreed yet, but they both already know he was in from the moment she opened her mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fifty cent kiss

**Author's Note:**

> FYI -- I've never even seen a kissing booth in person before. But I quite imagine this one to be like the one in She's The Man. This is a little rushed, a little scrappy (I've been sick lately oops!), but it's very fluffy and I hope you enjoy it!

“So,” says Jemma, swirling a straw through her milkshake. Her smile is innocent, her curls bounce as she spins the seat from side to side. Her feet don't even even reach the ground on these stools—she’s so adorable it’s not funny. _Except_. He knows all her tricks.

“What, Jemma?” he asks, eyeing her suspiciously. She doesn’t even comment when he steals one of her chips. That’s when he knows she’s really scheming.

“Since you lost our bet…” she says slowly, waiting for it to sink in. His eyes widen.

“ _No._  Jemma—”

“It’s only fair that you perform the appropriate consequence,” Jemma points out, clearly pleased with herself. “Daisy agreed.”

“Daisy agrees with everything that embarrasses me,” he complains, head burying into his hands, fingers threading their way through his curls. There's a gentle hand on his shoulder and he suddenly makes the very big mistake of glancing up.

Jemma pouts. She _knows_ he’s never resisted that look, the sneak.

“Please, Fitz? It’s _kissing._  You like kissing, don’t you?”

“Not strangers!” he protests. His eyes flicker traitorously down to her lips. _And not anybody who’s not you_ , he thinks. But he doesn't say it.

“It’s for _charity_ ,” she assures him, and he’d open his mouth to tell her he hasn’t agreed yet, but they both already know he was in from the moment she opened her mouth.

“Charity. _Great_.”

 

.

.

 

So, lo and behold, it’s not long before he’s hiding out the back of the kissing booth, palms sweaty, complaining about anything and everything any spare moment he can.

“What if I get sick?” he challenges.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “You _won’t_. But if you do, we’ll binge watch Scrubs and I'll bring you mint ice cream, and I won’t even nag you about your health.” She smiles prettily at him (he’s kind of torn between loving and hating her sweet summer dress), and his resolve immediately begins to crumble.

“Fine. For charity.”

“Yes! Think about all those people you’ll be helping,” she says brightly. “Besides, I’ve come prepared. There’s sanitizer in my bag.”

The curtain swishes back, and suddenly none other than literal god Antoine Triplett sweeps through, smiling.

“Fitz, Jemma. Good to see you guys.”

“Good to see you too,” they chorus as he moves off, although Jemma is significantly peppier.

“How am _I_ supposed to follow _that_?” he hisses, gesturing wildly to himself and his… pathetic excuse for a chest. Why couldn’t he be born with perfect abs and charming charisma?

Jemma looks no less deterred - instead, she even looks somewhat obstinate. “Fitz,” she chides fondly, “you can’t compare yourself. You _needn’t_ compare yourself. You’re very attractive.” And, to his utmost surprise, she leans on her toes and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Remember: fifty cents per kiss!”

“Fifty cents per kiss,” he echoes, stumbling out and trying desperately to stop his furious blush. It’s a little too late, because Daisy smirks knowingly as she pulls out a stool for him.

“Wow, two seconds and you’ve _already_ got a kiss. Impressive.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “It’s sunburn, okay? I don’t blush. Especially not around Jemma.”

Daisy claps him on the shoulder as she retreats backstage. “Whatever you say, kid.”

“I’m older than you!” he shouts feebly.

 

.

.

 

The day passes achingly slowly. The process goes a little something like this: fifty cents dropped into the jar, awkward leaning across the table to meet each other, and then… unpredictable results. There are good kisses and bad kisses, chaste kisses and French kisses (he shudders), sweet kisses and passionate kisses. But most importantly of all, there are no Jemma kisses.

“You’re a good kisser,” says Blonde Girl #8, smiling and twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “You should call me, I’ll write my number down—“

“You know what?” interrupts a loud voice, “It’s a _terrible_ shame, but we’re taking a break. Mr. Fitzy needs to refresh his lips.” He can smell familiar apple shampoo, and he knows it’s Jemma even before she slides into the seat next to him, hand finding his arm.

Blonde Girl #8 looks slightly affronted, but she smiles, glares at Jemma and then disappears into the crowd.

“We don’t break for ten minutes,” Fitz frowns, trying not to stumble over his words. Turns out speaking is kind of hard when you’re in close contact with Jemma Simmons, and she’s still grasping your arm.

“Don’t we? I must have read the time wrong,” Jemma says a little squeakily. She drops his arm and suddenly he remembers how to breathe again.

“Brought you some refreshments,” she smiles, handing him a paper bag. “Sandwiches, iced tea, chocolate chip cookies.”

“The good kind?” he asks seriously, digging through the bag.

“The good kind,” she confirms exasperatedly. He offers her a cookie and she accepts it, rolling her eyes when he takes an exaggerated bite into the sandwich.

“You’re the best, Jemma.”

He glances at her carefully. She tucks her hair behind her ear and ducks her head, but he knows it’s to hide a smile. _Mission successful, then._

“Don’t I know it,” she murmurs, before suddenly brightening and bumping his shoulder. “So. Kissing report? You’ve been… enjoying yourself, then?”

“Of course I haven’t been enjoying myself,” he grumbles. “This was a terrible idea.”

“You seem to be very popular,” Jemma points out, breaking her cookie in half. He glances over at the curious tone in her voice, but she remains firmly fixed on her cookie.

“You think so? I thought they were all just biding their time for Trip.”

“Oh, Fitz.” Her exasperation makes him smile, and he takes another bite of his sandwich as she starts to ramble on about how he is ‘just as attractive as Triplett, Fitz!’ with a fierce tone of voice. There’d been a time where he’d spent every waking moment in self-consciousness, constantly comparing himself to Hunter and Mack and Trip—but now, he’s contented himself with just being _him_. After all, he gets to be Jemma Simmons’ best friend. He’d much rather have that than a perfect physique. (Also, he kind of likes how insistent she is on proving him wrong.)

“Fitz? Are you even _listening_ to me?”

He gives her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

Jemma huffs. “All those kisses have gone to your head.” And he thinks she’s supposed to be teasing, except she scrapes back her chair and disappears a little too quickly.

 

.

.

 

“Um, Fitz? No offence, but I’ve been getting complaints about you for the last five minutes. Before it was all ‘oh my god, he’s such a good kisser’ and now it’s just ‘can i have my fifty cents back?’. You need to step up your game.”

Fitz glances up at Daisy, eyebrows raised, head on his hands. She sighs and drops down into the seat next to him.

“Seriously, Fitz. What’s wrong? Do you want to stop doing this?”

“No,” he says firmly, “I lost a bet. I promised Jemma I would.”

“ _Ah_.” Now Daisy’s voice is knowing, and he’s more than a little worried. “You don’t break promises to Jemma, do you?”

“‘Course not,” Fitz scoffs. “That’d be like violating the rules of friendship.”

“Mhmm. I think we’ve found the crux of our problem.” Daisy leans forward, her box of popcorn almost spilling. She doesn’t seem to care. “You’re thinking about Jemma.”

“What on Earth does Jemma have to do with kissing?”

“Jemma,” says Daisy very seriously, “has _everything_ to do with the subject of kissing.” And without further ado, she disappears, leaving him thoroughly disgruntled and extremely confused.

Why does everyone keep leaving without answers?

 

.

.

 

It’s been approximately twelve kisses since his talk with Daisy, eighteen since his sandwich break, and he still hasn’t seen any sight of Jemma.

Which is terrible, seeing as that he can’t stop glancing to his right whenever he has a spare moment, getting a little lost when he thinks about her too much. One time he thinks he spots the corner of her yellow dress, but he gets tugged into a song with a rather aggressive woman and when he glances back up, there’s no yellow to be seen.  

All in all, it’s a rather miserable experience, and he keeps leaving his customers with unsatisfying kisses because he’s so preoccupied.

Eventually, Trip taps on his shoulder and offers him a friendly smile.

“Daisy said you could pack up early. Hey, you had a good pull. Go Fitz.”

“Thanks?” Fitz says, squinting at the other man. “Um, have you seen Jemma?”

“Jemma? She’s by the popcorn machine. Reading a book, I think. Only she would opt to read at a funfair,” Trip chuckles.

Sure enough, when he locates the popcorn machine, Jemma’s there. She’s all curled up, chewing on the end of her bookmark, fingers running up and down her page. There’s popcorn in her hair, and Fitz feels an indescribable feeling of… _something_ bloom in his chest. Fondness, maybe.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says. She glances up and gives him a pleased grin, patting the spot next to him. He settles onto the floor next to her, pulling his knees up to his chest, her smile somehow sparking more than any of the kisses he’s had today.

“Have you really?” she teases. “You seemed pretty preoccupied to me.” She glances down and fiddles with her page towards the end of her sentence, and he frowns, suddenly concerned.

“Jemma… Is everything okay? You’re not… mad at me, are you? For doing this whole kissing booth thing, I mean.”

To his surprise, she laughs. “No, Fitz, I’m not mad at you. This was my idea, remember?”

“And Daisy’s,” he adds, scowling. She laughs again and sets down her book, twisting her body to face him. On instinct, he reaches out to pick a piece of popcorn out of her hair, and her eyes follow his hand intently. He takes in a breath without meaning too.

“Yeah,” says Jemma softly, “Can’t forget about Daisy.”

He retreats his hand and quickly shoves it back into his lap, suddenly confused about the surge of emotion that’s overcome him. _Best friend. Right._ He swallows quickly and then risks looking back at her.

“So you’re really not mad at me?”

“I’m really not mad at you,” she promises, biting her lip. _Do not think about her lips, Leopold_.

“Good, because I was so worried I ended up being kind of rubbish towards the end,” he admits, cheeks burning as he says it. Jemma’s eyes lighten and her cheeks pinken too.

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirms, moving his foot and scuffing his sneaker into the dust. “Guess that means I have to do another day, right?”

“No,” she says suddenly. She seems even to have shocked herself, and she ducks her head slightly. “I mean, no, you don’t have to. You’ve already spent a day kissing strangers. I think that’s a fair consequence for losing the bet.”

He shrugs doubtfully. “Daisy said I should do another day.” He’s testing his limits now, but he can’t help it. Jemma Simmons is going to be the end of him, he’s sure.

“Oh.”

He waits. And waits. And waits. Jemma doesn’t continue speaking. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and waits a moment longer. When nothing happens, he pushes himself to his feet, trying to shove away his unwarranted disappointment.

“I should head home,” he says without looking at her, pulling on his jacket and heading for the exit. He’s almost made it when he hears his name, so sudden he almost misses it.

He stills, and then turns around. “Jemma?”

She’s up on her feet now, hair falling around her face, lips slightly parted. She still looks as adorable as the day from the diner. He thinks he might just cave if she stares at him like that for a moment longer.

“Don’t do it,” she says finally.

Fitz risks a step closer. “Don’t do what, Jemma?” He knows what she means, but he just needs to hear her say it, hear her confirmation of it.

She swallows, and suddenly her gaze becomes determined. “Don’t do the kissing booth tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or next week. Or ever again.

His breath catches, just like he’d expected it would. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you kissing twenty people, or ten people, or even one person,” she blurts out, chest heaving.

“Not even one person?” he asks, lips beginning to turn up into the barest hints of a teasing smile.

“Not one person,” she insists adamantly. And then, she pauses, like she’s searching for courage. “Unless that one person is me.”

It’s the confirmation. It’s the confirmation he’s been hoping for ever since that one party where they’d shared a drunken kiss and vowed to forget about it. It’s the confirmation he’s been hoping for every time she kisses his cheek, or lets her hand linger on his for a moment too long, or stands closer to him than socially acceptable. It’s the confirmation he’s been hoping for ever since that stormy Thursday afternoon, when a pretty brunette with a million books and a polka dot umbrella had marched straight up to him, stuck out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Jemma Simmons. You look freezing—care to share an umbrella?’.

It’s the confirmation, and all he can say is: “You know what? I think I can live with that.” Followed immediately by a groan, and, “Oh my god, did I just say that? The prettiest girl on the planet just told me she wants to kiss me, and I say _that_? I’m so _stupid_.”

Jemma grins, carefree and a little bit (a lotta bit) mischievous. “Good thing I’ve got a thing for stupid.”

And with that, she promptly pulls him down by the collar and crashes her lips to his. And oh, Fitz is not feeling stupid anymore. He is feeling very, very clever, because obviously he must have done something very right if Jemma Simmons is kissing him like _this_. Her hands wind up on his jaw, tugging him closer. He wraps his arms around her waist as her mouth works against his, teeth sliding against his lip, and he can’t help but make a small noise in the back of his mouth. Why hasn’t he done this before?

Oh wait. He has. All day. But none of them have ever been like _this_ . He’d trade in all the kisses he’s had today just for a _second_ of Jemma’s.

They pull away eventually for air, breathing heavily, but their foreheads stay pressed, so close their breaths mingle together. She sighs, happily, and moves her thumb against his jaw. He’s reluctant to ruin the moment, but he’d never forgive himself if he missed out on a chance for a perfect joke, so:

“Hey, Jemma?”

“Mmm?” she murmurs, clearly still dazed, and he almost preens with pride.

“That’ll be fifty cents,” he whispers.

Her eyes fly open. “I’d swat you for that joke.”

“But?” he prompts cheekily.

She leans in and presses a sweet kiss to the tip of his nose. “But I rather like kissing you. And I happen to think the fifty cents is completely worth it.”

“Great,” he says, already leaning in, “I’m gonna make a fortune.”


End file.
